


Prince, Knight, Dragon

by orphan_account



Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fairy Tale, Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Alternate Universe - Human, M/M, OOC, POV Multiple, Romance, Smaug is still a dragon though, Title is rubbish
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-18
Updated: 2016-06-18
Packaged: 2018-07-15 18:35:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,587
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7233982
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Thorin is no “Charming Prince”, Bilbo is as far away from “Knight in Shinny Armor” as it gets, and shouldn’t Smaug be able to breathe fire at will?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Prince, Knight, Dragon

**Author's Note:**

> Based on a post from OTP Prompts: Imagine your OT3 (OTP + their sentient pet, really) as a Princess (Prince, heh), a Knight, and a Dragon who all live together in a tower.  
> Also, Smaug here is about bigger than a fellbeast or an eagle, but nowhere near as big as he was in The Hobbit. The geographical locations are more or less canon.  
> I own nothing related to The Hobbit, or Bagginshield would've been canon (like, more canon than it was? Huh).  
> English is not my first language, whoops.

I

Dol Guldur is a bleak, empty fortress in the outskirts of Mirkwood. Or at least it was supposed to be empty.

They reach the forgotten fort some four weeks after his grandfather proclaims his banishment, having chosen it at his counselors’ advice, and his wrists are bruised from being tied for so long, but he hardly feels the pain; he hardly feels anything that isn’t sadness and rejection.

Dwalin helps him dismount the horse and then guides him towards the entrance of the fortress through a narrow bridge. He’s heard about Dol Guldur since he was a child, but facing it he realizes it is by no means as frightening as the stories make it seem: one of the northern towers is mostly gone and there are debris scattered all over the visible ground, some even in the side of the cliff; the south-west corner is covered in bindweed and it gives some color to the otherwise pale stone. It seems lonely and peaceful, but hardly menacing.

“I’ll look after them, and so will Balin,” his cousin tells him as they come to a halt under the archway. “And you don’t have to worry about Saruman sending one of his men; the King has already tasked Gandalf with that.”

A short procession walks pass them, carrying bundles and a pair of chests. Dwalin doesn’t untie the ropes until the last man crosses the bridge to rejoin their group.

“I would hug you, but…”

“Best not,” his voice is gruff from lack of use and he glances at the wizard standing on the other side to make his point.

Dwalin nods and steps back. “Take care of yourself. I will visit, if I ever have the chance.”

He leaves then and Saruman only steps onto the bridge once the warrior is back on his saddle. Saruman lifts his staff and starts speaking in a foreign tongue, Quenya perhaps, but he doesn’t need to understand it to know that the old wizard is putting a spell on him, binding him to the decaying stronghold, until he either sees his faults or is needed by his Kingdom. The thing is, he sees no fault in what he did and he doesn’t want Erebor to need him.

Soon enough, the group is back on their horses, turning towards the path amongst the trees and all Thorin can do is stare at their backs until a bend in the road hides them from his view.

*

He paces the courtyard for a while, taking in the premises, until he decides that one of the rooms meant as vigilance posts within the eastern wall is the best option. He expects company within a week or so and he will need to be ready to receive them.

The stairs towards the post on the southern side of the gate are made of stone and seem to be whole and the window’s shutters are almost intact, so he takes his scant possessions and sets them in a corner of the room. It takes many trips and he decides to empty the chests and leave them in a small room by the entrance instead of carry them upstairs, but he finishes shortly before sunset. Most of the packs he doesn’t touch that evening. Instead he pulls all the blankets there are, as well as a mat, and carefully lays them on the stone floor; then he searches for warm clothes and some food. He doesn’t light up a fire and leaves the little wood he has for colder nights.

It’s dusk when he walks down the stairs once again and heads to the bridge. He’s careful with his steps, not wanting to fall off it by accident, and keeps his arms outstretched until he feels something that shouldn’t be there: it’s a flat, invisible wall that sets his boundaries.

He goes back to his new room and lies on the mat covered with half his blankets. And if he cries himself to sleep, there’s nobody there to witness it.

*

The sun is rising when he wakes up, cold and sore, and he decides to make the best of the situation.

He opens the shutters and cleans the room with a brush and some rags that someone – Balin, most likely – was thoughtful enough to add. He then sits on the mat and takes account of what he has while chewing on some dry meat.

There are plenty of clothes, both light and warm, as well as pans, pots and tools. He has two axes – a war one included – and some knives and cooking utensils. There are two full waterskins and he was told there is a running well, somewhere, though he’ll have to boil the water. Some items surprise him: there are three books – compilations of his people’s stories, poems and history –, one of his mother’s favorite necklaces, carbon drawings of his family and his father’s favorite sword. He brings one of the chests up so he can keep his treasures safe.

He finishes around midday, so he takes up exploring the fortress… which is how he meets his _cohabitant_.

The northern wall is holding on by a miracle, as are the two buildings adjunct to it, so he inspects the southern structures first. He finds the barracks, the armory and the communitarian kitchens, so he assumes the northern buildings were the servants’ lodgings, storage rooms and the chapel. The main building, the castle, is in very good shape and the main hall is warm thanks to the sunlight streaming through an oculus in the high ceiling. He takes a quick look at various rooms in the ground and first floors and walks back outside through a service door in the kitchen, finding a ruined garden, the well right in the middle of it. Thorin strolls around, taking in the dead trees covered in moss and the decaying northern wall – no more than rubble here – until he stumbles upon the entrance to a cave, nearly hidden by a group of fallen acacias. Having nothing better to do, he heads back inside the castle to retrieve some old cloth and make a torch with a branch, then carefully steps into the cave.

The tunnel is wide, easily able to fit ten people standing side by side, but not too high, leading towards below the castle in a soft slope. It’s dark, dry and cold, and looks excavated rather than natural, with soft soil and hardly any rocks under his feet. He walks slowly, feeling the ground, and takes a turn to his left, reaching a wide cavern with a pond a few meters in front of him and to his right –

There is a dragon.

He gasps and takes a quick step back before his brain catches up and he stops moving altogether. The creature is some 20 meters away, lying in the dirt with its eyes closed and breathing softly. It’s roughly the size of one of those giant eagles living near the Misty Mountains, maybe larger.

A part of his mind tells him that the dragon is sleep and that would give him a head start should he turn around and leave as quiet as possible, right about now; but most of him is listening to that other voice that’s screaming that he’s as good as dead.

He takes a deep, quiet breath and wills his heart to slow down. He steps back slowly, careful not to step on any of the few rocks and watching for any movement the creature might make.

The winged beast breathes steadily for a moment and then huffs, stretches its limbs. Thorin freezes again and stares as it extends its long neck, yawning. He should run, he really sh–

The dragon turns and looks straight at him. “Hello there,” it says.

Thorin runs, runs like he never has before.

*

Eight days later, he’s considering letting the dragon incinerate him in order to avoid starving to death when, shortly after midday, he catches sight of two horsemen approaching the castle.

He has stayed in the vigilance post ever since the meeting, only leaving to get water from the well, as cautious as he can manage, and has only seen the dragon again once: five days after his arrival, the beast emerges sometime after sunrise and flies North, returning an hour before sunset with a warg in its grasp. And he has been wondering: why is it that it didn’t attacked them at his arrival? But the thing is, there _is_ a dragon in a cave under the fortress and dragons are known for their keen senses.

He waves his arms and shouts, warning them; they are within hearing range, he knows, but they don’t stop and when they look his way he can make out Gandalf’s cheery face and a fair, unknown man. Gandalf takes the front when they reach the bridge, the other man close behind, and Thorin all but flies down the staircase, axe in hand, to receive them at the entrance.

“Thorin,” the wizard greets him merrily as the pair comes to a halt. “I’m glad to see you are faring well.”

“Did you not hear me?” He gapes at the two, surprised by the reaction.

“Well of course we did.”

“And where is Smaug?” The stranger speaks, gracefully dismounting the horse.

The man is roughly a head shorter than himself and stocky; he has blond, curly hair that almost reaches his shoulders, blue-green eyes and a lightly tanned skin; he’s dressed in travel clothes that resemble a Ranger’s outfit, with dark brown leather breeches, boots and a vest atop a white shirt, and a dark green, worn cloak. But that’s not what makes him stare.

“ _Smaug_? That creature has a name?”

The stranger only raises an eyebrow as he stares at him. “All dragons do.”

Thorin frowns at him.

“My dear boy, let me introduce you to Bilbo Baggins, of the Shire. Bilbo, I have already spoken to you about Thorin.”

The man – Bilbo – presents his arm as a salute and Thorin grasps his wrist the way he was taught to do, feeling for any hidden weapons – not that he needs to, he can see a short sword on either side of his hips and a proper sword strapped to his back, and he doubts that’s the end of it.

“I have never heard of the Shire before.”

“And that’s how we like it,” he replies with a charming smile.

“I have chosen Bilbo to accompany you,” Gandalf explains as he walks into the courtyard. “Now, where is that blasted dragon?”

Said “blasted” dragon is already out of its hole by the time they reach the forgotten gardens and Thorin tenses at the sight of it; although, Gandalf and Bilbo don’t seem to have any of the same problems.

“I could hear your horses from miles away,” the dragon says in a deep, powerful voice.

“Now you’re just bragging,” the shorter man accuses as he walks towards the beast.

 _Smaug_ huffs and bows until its jaw – strong, filled with sword-like teeth jaw – reaches their height.

“It has been years, I thought you’d forgotten all about me.”

The blond reaches with his left hand and caresses the side of the dragon’s head. Thorin gapes.

“I haven’t hit my head that hard _yet_.”

*

Thorin expresses his doubts the next morning.

“I can see he is well prepared, but I have never heard of this Knight.”

Gandalf has the gall to _laugh_.

“My dear Thorin, I never said Bilbo was a Knight.”

He then turns and walks away before Thorin has the opportunity to recover from the shock and give the wizard a piece of his mind.

As it is, two days after that Bilbo leaves before sunrise and returns some hours later, venison wrapped and tucked into bags at the sides of his mount.

“What did you do with the carcass? It could draw wargs and wolves.”

Bilbo shrugs as he takes the saddle off the horse. “Smaug will deal with it.”

And he does.

*

Gandalf stays for a week. In that time, the three of them inspect every nook and cranny of the fortress; they discard the northern wall and buildings, as Gandalf deems them “lost beyond hope”, and find that almost all the hearths are clear, if a bit dusty. Bilbo also explores the surrounding forest and brings back firewood every time.

The day before he leaves, Gandalf believes he has rested enough to work some magic: he cleans some of the heavier debris, fixes a few small things and in the evening lights up a grand fire in the courtyard, Smaug lying around it.

He seizes the opportunity to ask Bilbo: “Why doesn’t the dragon light up the fire instead?”

“He can’t,” his companion replies after a moment. Thorin frowns.

“Why?”

“I don’t know, and even if I did, I wouldn’t tell you. You’ll have to ask him yourself.”

The next morning, Thorin doesn’t bother to change clothes and heads towards the entrance to farewell the wizard, finding him and Bilbo, who had both stayed in the barracks, already there. He wishes Gandalf safe travels as he shakes his hand and watches as he parts, guiding Bilbo’s borrowed horse with a rope, Smaug’s head and Bilbo on either side of him.

And _that_ is how Thorin finds himself, an exiled Prince, in the sole company of Bilbo Baggins, who is decisively _not_ a Knight, and Smaug, an undersized dragon unable to breathe fire. Still, it could be worse: he could be alone.

II

Gandalf the Grey knocks on his door one sunny morning in early autumn and at first he’s pleasantly surprised, having last seen his mother’s friend years ago; he doesn’t give it much thought until the wizard tells him that he needs a favor. Oh, _burn_.

“Have you heard about Erebor?”

Bilbo sighs in exasperation. “Yes, I have.”

“Well then. A few weeks ago an Ereborean was banished by the King and now he is being taken to Dol Guldur. I was tasked to find someone capable to accompany him, since he won’t be able to leave the fortress for a while, you see.”

“No,” is his immediate answer, because he learned a long time ago that bluntness is the only way to deal with the meddling wizard. “Absolutely not,” and he shakes his head for good measure.

Gandalf smiles and Bilbo hates him. They both know he’s only being stubborn.

“But you are _perfect_ for the job!”

“Gandalf, I am _not_ a Knight, you know that.”

“Ah, but I didn’t mention a Knight and, frankly, neither did they.”

Bilbo wants to throw the remainder of his tea at his interlocutor’s face, and yet…

In the evening he finds himself making preparations for both the journey and his absence: he digs his travel clothes and all the blankets out of his many wardrobes; he hides his fine china and his mother’s silver in hopes to keep them safe from greedy relatives, and writes a lengthy letter to his grandfather with instructions in case something happens to him, which he will send in the morning. For now, Bilbo goes to bed and enjoys it while he still can.

*

“I want you to tell me more about this man,” the blond requests the next morning. If he’s going to agree to this madness he needs to know _what_ he’s agreeing to.

“My dear boy, don’t you trust me?”

Bilbo glares. “No.”

“I insist, the incident with the trolls was only an accident,” but he’s smiling in that way that clearly says that it was no such thing.

“That’s hardly the matter.”

“And what do you want to know?”

“Who is he, and what did he do?”

Gandalf sips his tea. “Well, you can trust me on this: Thorin is a good man.”

“Oh, I can believe that. But if he is such a good man, what’s the reason for his exile?”

“He opposed to one of the King’s mandates.”

He hums, impressed. “King Thror, do you mean? Not a wise choice if half of what I’ve heard about him is true.”

Gandalf grows somber. “And you haven’t heard half of it. Thror’s mind is weak, influenced by gold-sickness, and his court fuels it in the hopes to take advantage of it. Thorin hoped the King would listen to his advice, but he spoke too loud, too late and the King viewed it as defiance.”

“Well, he tried when the rest didn’t care. I can appreciate that and I see why you want to protect him. Now, why did you chose me?”

“It couldn’t be an Ereborean or a man of Dale, they could either help him or attempt to murder him, and Erebor is not in the best relations with the elves of Mirkwood; hence, I was tasked to find his companion. And it was only natural that I would think of you: you are skilled in combat and an exceptional hunter, and you are an unbiased foreigner.”

Well, when he puts it like that.

“When do we leave?”

“As soon as you are ready, my friend.”

“Alright. Two days then.”

They stay in silence for a moment, eating their breakfast and enjoying the view from the kitchen’s window.

“Gandalf?”

“Yes?”

“Does this man–”

“Thorin.”

“Does he know about Smaug?”

“Well, of course he doesn’t.”

Bilbo doesn’t throw anything his way, but he _is_ very creative with his insults and curses.

*

They leave Bag End two days later, before sunrise.

Bilbo burrows a horse from the owner of the Green Dragon and they load it and Shadowfax with all of Bilbo’s possessions and supplies and then they’re off. The man throws one last glance at his smial, as if saying goodbye, before he focuses on the road ahead.

They make haste without forcing their horses and reach the edge of the Mirwood within three weeks, passing the Misty Mountains through a nearly forgotten passage. After that they follow the elven road for two days and then turn south, taking a dirt road that leads straight towards Dol Guldur, approaching the fortress not three days later.

*

Bilbo’s first impression of Thorin is not very flattering, but it’s understandable, when you’re trapped in a castle with a dragon and there’s people heading straight to that very same place.

Thorin is clearly a few years older than he is – but still in his mid-thirties –, wears simple clothes and boots – but Bilbo can tell the quality of them – and his black hair, shorter than his own, is disheveled; he carries a battle axe and there’s a crazed look on his eyes which slowly shifts into confusion. Bilbo pities him.

The Ereborean is a rough man, Bilbo notes very early on. He keeps to himself most of the time and hardly speaks to either Gandalf or him as they inspect their surroundings. But the stares are a different thing and he gets tired of those on the fifth day.

“He doubts me, doesn’t he?”

Gandalf sighs from his spot by the window.

“He does, but only because he doesn’t know you.”

The wizard leaves two days later and, as soon as he disappears around a turn, Thorin retreats to his room. _This_ will not do.

III

He avoids Smaug and Bilbo as much as he can for all of five days and he would’ve gladly continued if it weren’t for the shorter man.

“You are ignoring us.”

“You are very perceptive,” he replies.

Bilbo takes a sharp breath and then relaxes his stand.

“Look, Thorin, we’re stuck here, alright? We need to–”

He then makes his first – or second, more likely – mistake and interrupts his companion: “Nothing stops you from leaving.”

Bilbo’s left hand shots up in a halt motion and there’s a look on his face that makes him want to step back.

“ _Don’t_ you interrupt me; it’s impolite,” and he keeps one of his short swords – scimitars, he found out not three days ago – with him at all times, so he certainly won’t cross him _now_.

“As I was saying, we are stuck here, whether either of us like it or not. And that includes Smaug. It’s time for you to deal with this and _collaborate_ , yes?”

He nods, but Bilbo’s having none of it.

“Did you understand?”

“Yes,” and he remembers the captains of the Ereborean guard.

“Good.”

His companion relaxes and stares into the distance for a moment before speaking again.

“Are you planning to stay in that vigilance post for the rest of your days?”

“One of us should stay close to the entrance, in case someone comes.”

Bilbo faces him and there’s a question in his eyes, but he seems to answer it himself.

“You don’t need to do that, we have Smaug.”

He then turns and heads towards the entrance, to fetch wood, he believes.

*

He might have agreed to move to the barracks, where Bilbo’s staying near a warm hearth, but he doesn’t have to like it. He moves his things himself and Bilbo only offers twice and before going back to cleaning his weapons. It’s the first time he gets a look at Bilbo’s whole arsenal and he feels helpless.

There are the sword and the two scimitars along with a bow and two quivers with dozens of arrows. Laid in front of the fair man are a set of ten throwing knives, four daggers and a pair of spiked brass knuckles.

“Are we expecting trouble?”

“We are expecting the worse,” Bilbo replies without missing a beat. “Dol Guldur is isolated in the outskirts of Mirwood, which would make it a perfect orcish outpost. They have settled here before, a long time ago, and they were driven out. Smaug established here soon after that.”

“Do you believe they will come, after all this time?”

“I believe anything could happen. If it’s not the orcs then it could be bandits, wargs or spiders. From what I understood, you were important back in Erebor, someone could attempt to murder you. I’m surprised nobody has already tried.”

*

They spend more time together after that. They share three daily meals, the first two of them with Smaug, and smoke together before sleep. They would wander about some days, searching for anything that might be of use, others they would simply stay in the garden, Bilbo occasionally surveying the soil and humming to himself.

“What is on your mind?” He finally asks when curiosity gets the best of him.

“I believe,” the man replies as he stands up and dusts his hands on his wool pants, “with some work, we could bring this place back to life.”

He simply stares back at him, skeptic.

“What about the soil?”

“It shouldn’t be much of a problem. Smaug and I could bring some fresh earth and mix it with this, and then I could visit the Shire to get some seeds.” Bilbo approaches him and sits down. “We could grow our own vegetables, some fruit trees as well, thought those would take time.”

Thorin takes in the bare ground, the few patches of dry weeds scattered around, the fallen acacias and the dead pine tree in the south-east corner. He can’t see what Bilbo sees, but maybe, with some hard work, they could make it happen. It isn’t like they have much to do.

“Alright then, let’s do it.”

Bilbo and the dragon leave a week later, after securing the area, and return two days later. He hardly sleeps those nights.

“Winter is around the bend,” Bilbo explains after they drop the sacks in the kitchen floor, “so we can’t plant anything unless it’s an acorn or some such.”

“Then what do we do?”

“We mix the earth, add some worms, dead leaves from the forest and some fertilizer, let it breathe and acquire minerals.”

“We ready it for spring, then.”

“Precisely.”

Bilbo goes into Mirkwood the next day and brings back bags filled with fallen leaves and they work together the following four days. It’s only a handful of square meters but Bilbo is very precise about the procedure. At the end of each day he’s embarrassingly exhausted while his companion hardly seems tired. Hopefully he will get accustomed to manual labor within the next, say, two or three years.

*

Winter passes slow, languid. Snow covers the landscape around Yule and Thorin worries over their worms.

“Don’t. They’re a sturdy kind, trust me.”

They spend most of their time in the barracks, covered in blankets near the fire, reading or sleeping and Smaug hunts instead of Bilbo. They spar on occasion and Thorin finds himself defeating the shorter man only half of those. Whereas Thorin is strong and can easily overpower him, Bilbo has quick reflexes and is very resourceful; they also use different techniques with his direct approach and the blond opting for tiring him. Maybe Gandalf’s onto something.

*

Bilbo and Smaug travel to the Shire once the days grow longer and warmer and this time they are absent for a week, leaving Thorin jittery and lonely, not that he will ever admit it.

“We’re very sorry for the delay,” the dragon apologizes after carefully leaving a large wooden chest in the ground, “but it was _his_ fault.”

The man snorts as he _jumps_ off Smaug’s back. His curls are tousled by the wind and he wears a blue coat much like those of Dale and leather gloves.

“You didn’t help all that much,” he drops his heavy looking pack to the stone floor and faces his dark haired companion with a smile. “But yes, I guess it was my fault. There were a few things I wanted to bring that took more time than I thought.”

Smaug rests for a moment and then carries the chest towards the southern building while Thorin takes Bilbo’s pack to the castle. Then comes the pain that is dragging-pushing the chest and its contents towards the barracks, which is his own stubborn fault, really. They reach the other side of the building panting and Bilbo glares at him.

He shrugs. “We’re still young, aren’t we?”

And the sound the other makes might or might not be a giggle.

When he opens the chest to take a look at the additions to their supplies he thinks he could kiss the man seated next to him.

There are two pouches containing salt, one garlic and one onion braid, and a net with dried peppers. There are also two thick and soft mats, a pair of feather pillows and two quilts. But what catches his eyes is a pair of bottles, wine bottles, carefully tucked in the quilts.

He must show his surprise, because Bilbo explains: “Just because we’re stuck here doesn’t mean we have to be uncomfortable.”

Thorin turns to look at him.

“You brought wine.”

The blond stares back for a moment and _blushes_.

“Well, yes,” he sputters, “one red and one white. I didn’t know which one you like, you see.”

They stay like that for a moment.

“So,” he interrupts the silence and lets a smirk find its way out, “should I suspect any hidden intentions?”

Bilbo opens his mouth in shock, but no words come out, and then he’s laughing. It’s the first time he laughs – not a chuckle, not an amused huff – since they met and Thorin finds he likes it – the sound, the honesty, the warm hand gently resting on his shoulder.

*

They return to the garden at Bilbo’s judgment and Thorin is pleased to see the worms thriving in the soil.

“We will need to keep an eye on them, in case the birds aren’t enough to control their numbers.”

They have been working with seedlings for the past two weeks, Bilbo teaching him how to properly tend them, by the time they transplant them into a patch of now fresh soil; Bilbo chooses to plant other seeds directly to the ground. Twelve days after they do that, the seeds and sprouts seem to be doing well and they choose to celebrate, with the red wine.

They make a small fire in the courtyard and lie down with their backs resting on Smaug’s flank. They keep mostly silent, Bilbo and Smaug occasionally telling each other riddles – they try to convince him to join at first, but if there’s one thing he has never understood were riddles – while the men eat venison and sip their wine, making both last as much as possible.

Eventually, they eat the last piece of meat and the moon is high in the sky, but neither of them moves. The nights are warmer now, they are covered in blankets and Smaug is warm behind them. It’s probably a combination of the warmth and the wine that makes them talk, but neither of them seems very surprised by what they reveal.

“I was a Bounder, a Ranger of sorts, until a few years ago,” and Thorin can see him, defending his homeland in an efficient and 

intelligent manner, even if others didn’t agree. “We had a harsh winter, you see, and wolves and orcs came from the north. They were few, but they were desperate. I was stabbed, in the arm and the leg. I was healed by the elves of Rivendel, but my grandparents begged me to retire.”

“And yet here you are.”

“And yet here I am,” Bilbo repeats with a smirk.

“Who trained you?”

The younger man looks at him in askance.

“The way you fight, the weapons you use, seems like the blend of different combat styles. I have already identified techniques from Gondor, the Blue Mountains, the Iron Hills and elves.”

Bilbo hums briefly. “My mother taught me most of what I know, and she learned a lot from Gandalf and the elves of Rivendel.”

They remain silent for a long time, but neither of them falls asleep.

“I was the Crown Prince of Erebor.”

Thorin tells him about everything: his upbringing and his family, his grandfather and how badly Thrain’s death had affected him, and how he’d ended up there. Both man and dragon listen to him without making a single comment and when he finishes, Bilbo huddles closer, their sides pressing together all the way from their shoulders to their feet, and they sleep like that.

IV

They settle into a routine of sorts: they wake up shortly before or after sunrise and Thorin would go to the bridge, see if the spell has dissolved, while Bilbo makes breakfast; around midday they work on the garden or the castle until sunset; they eat supper accompanied by Smaug and finally retreat to the barracks. Some days, he would leave at dawn, enter Mirkwood and return a few hours later, a pair of rabbits or birds in his bag; Thorin would skin, or pluck, and gut his catch and they would make a stew and save the leftover meat for the following days. On occasion, Smaug would hunt a deer for them.

Their partnership has improved. Thorin has proved to be a kind, occasionally playful man who cares more than he lets on and seems genuinely curious about Shire traditions. He still tiptoes around Smaug, but at least he speaks to the dragon now. He works next to him, _with_ him, and listens to everything Bilbo says with rapt attention. They converse in the mornings and late into the night until sleep takes them; Bilbo learns a lot about Erebor, Dale, the Iron Hills and their peoples.

All in all, it becomes a pleasant experience. He misses the Shire, which he visits sometimes, and they are isolated, but he never feels alone and within two years the place feels a lot more _alive_. Their garden is not exactly lush, but there are flowers and a patch of crops; Smaug had helped them discard the dead trees on their first spring and instead they now have two young apple trees and plan to add orange trees and maybe a sycamore.

They change accommodations as well. Considering they have no gates and they are nowhere near to acquire new ones, all the buildings are unprotected, save one, the castle – with thick, reinforced doors which somehow survived who knew how long. They move their things to a large room in the first floor, early on their second spring there, and make it as comfortable as possible.

“We could use some proper furniture,” Thorin comments as he surveys the result. Bilbo snorts and heads to the kitchen to make them a good meal.

They’re not optimistic and they have few possessions, but they have each other and they make do.

*

“People are coming this way,” Smaug tells them one morning of their second summer.

Thorin is still dressing, trousers only halfway up his legs, and Bilbo is almost at the door, heading towards the kitchen, when Smaug’s face – part of it – appears through the already open window. They all freeze for a moment and then Thorin lets out what must be a curse, in Khuzdûl, and fastens his clothes.

“How close?”

“They are still a few miles away. It seems to be a horse and a carriage of sorts.”

Both men frown.

“A carriage?”

“Yes, I can hear the wheels.”

They stop again, confused this time, and stare at each other.

“It could be people who need help or shelter,” Thorin proposes.

“Perhaps, but we must be ready for the worst.”

They leave the castle and cross the courtyard towards the useless gate, weapons ready. They come to a stop a few steps before the bridge and wait. They have prepared for this kind of situation, sort of. Bilbo and Thorin welcome their unexpected visitors and if things get out of hand they signal Smaug to give them a hand. It’s a very simple plan; they just hope it’s enough.

But when the horses turn that last bend and they see their visitors, they drop all their plans and sigh, relieved and exasperated. An elf, surely one from Mirkwood, is riding the horse and Gandalf is seated in the carriage, steering the sturdy ponies. When they reach the other side of the bridge, they stop and the wizard comes down and walks towards them. Bilbo watches him with no small amount of suspicion.

“Good morning, my dear friends!” He greets them with his characteristic cheer. “I’m so very happy to see you doing well,” he stops right in front of them, places his hands on their shoulders and gives them a long look. “You _are_ doing well, yes?”

Bilbo is very tempted to _roll_ his eyes. Thorin has let his hair and beard grow in the past couple of seasons and Bilbo hasn’t cut his hair in months, but they do look presentable and healthy, they know.

“Yes, Gandalf, we _are_ doing fine.”

“Almost two years, and now you worry?” Thorin mutters, keeping his unfriendly eyes on the elf.

“Oh, well, I have been busy. I couldn’t come whenever I pleased.”

“Yes, good, you are here,” Bilbo hastens. “Now, why are you here, and who is she?”

All three of them turn to the woman then.

“She’s Tauriel,” he replies, clearly pleased with himself. “She’s one of Thranduil’s captains. A dutiful and very skilled woman, may I add. It took some convincing, and annoying, but Thranduil finally lent her to be my escort through the forest.”

The Ereborean’s glare turns downright hostile, but the blond is not impressed.

“And what is the reason for your visit?”

Gandalf sighs. “What ever happened to your manners, Bilbo Baggins?”

“Something to do with mountain trolls and favors,” he replies, managing his worst glare – which isn’t much, if Thorin is to be believed. The other man gives him a curious glance, but remains silent.

“That can’t be helped. But trust me on this,” he most certainly doesn’t, “this time you will be happy for my visit.”

And, well, he is.

Thorin stays at the eastern side of the bridge as Bilbo accompanies Gandalf towards the cart and greets the elf maiden; she is a beautiful woman with a sweet voice, but he doesn’t fail to notice the way she _studies_ them. As it is, the cart is loaded with _furniture_. He turns a questioning look at Gandalf, who simply shrugs.

“I thought you could use these.”

Under the tarp are two sizable beds that will need to be put together, cloth and straw to make two mattresses and a lovely sofa; he can also see two medium sized wooden chests.

“How do you want to go about it?”

He opts for starting with the heaviest first. Tauriel and he carry the sofa across the bridge and they leave it in the entrance, where they ultimately leave everything, covered in the tarp. Gandalf and Tauriel take the ponies and the horse to the gardens where, whether Bilbo likes it or not, there are a few patches of grass, and tie them to some heavy rocks so they won’t wander off to the flowers or vegetables. They hide the cart behind some trees.

Bilbo makes breakfast to the best of his abilities, and possibilities, including meat, vegetables and fruit, and Gandalf adds bread; they eat in the kitchen.

“I’m afraid it was all I could do,” the wizard laments and then turns to Thorin. “Dis helped me, but she couldn’t do much either, lest Thrain would suspect.”

Thorin nods. “It’s more than what we had, Gandalf, and for that we are grateful. I am grateful.” The Ereborean turns to the elf, but there’s no harshness now. “And I thank you, Lady Tauriel, for escorting our friend.”

The auburn haired soldier welcomes him with a polite, yet sweet smile, and Bilbo and Gandalf pick up the conversation, the short man asking for news about the wide world.

Shortly after midday, Thorin and Gandalf pay Smaug a visit, advising him not to come out, while Bilbo distracts Tauriel. Not that it makes any difference.

“I don’t know what it is you hide, but you don’t have to worry about it. I know it’s not evil and evil is my only concern.” She spares him a gentle smile and he would be truly captivated, if it weren’t for…

“I appreciate it. Now, what news can you tell me, that Gandalf hasn’t?”

They continue their stroll as Tauriel answers.

“Nothing urgent; both spring and summer are very uneventful. But we have witnessed an increase in orcish activity in the last few winters, and the spiders seem to gain terrain every year. We still don’t know _where_ they come from.”

Bilbo nods. “We will be alert, come the colder days.”

The elf maiden looks at him.

“If anything grave occurs I will come to let you know.”

The man stops and stares back.

“There is no need for you to do that. You owe nothing to us.”

She shrugs with impeccable elegance.

“True, but I will do it just the same. I couldn’t live with myself if either of you are harmed as I stand and do nothing.”

He nods slowly, mulling over her words.

“I understand.”

“I know you do.”

Thorin and he transport most of their acquisitions to their room, Gandalf and Tauriel only helping with the lighter items, at their insistence. The visitors stay for two days so they, and the animals, can rest. Gandalf takes the opportunity to look at the improvements they have done, but the most impressive they have managed is bringing the garden back to life and, considering the necessity of it, they hardly see it as a feat.

*

The sofa and the beds are a blessing. They still use the mats, in order to not get poked by the straw, and Thorin starts collecting all the feathers he can salvage from Bilbo’s catches.

One of the chests contains books and they are so very grateful about them. They like each other, they do, but it was only a matter of time before they ran out of subjects to discuss and stories to read. There were so many books Bilbo could bring back from his occasional travels and the lack of any sort of entertainment could _strain_ them. In the other, larger, chest they find cloth – wool and linen –, scissors, thread and needle, as well as, nestled in the fabrics, a lovely violin.

“You didn’t tell me you could play.” Thorin looks at the instrument with reverence.

“There wasn’t much of a point, was there?”

He plays a small piece that night, his fingers so familiar with the instrument and the motions he hardly needs the light. Bilbo can feel his companion’s stare on him, but they both remain quiet in the dark.

*

Thorin is great company; he’s kind and thoughtful and a good intellectual counterpart. But Bilbo is neither stupid nor blind and he knows that, sometimes, longing and sadness get the best of him.

The Ereborean withdraws, he barely speaks, eats or even moves, staring at the horizon for long periods of time. He lets him; Thorin has the right to feel like this, exiled by his own maddened grandfather for a misunderstanding – an excuse, truly.

But not today: today, autumn approaches its end and with it comes the second anniversary of that fateful day when he was tied to this accursed fortress. He can see him standing, motionless, by a window on a staircase in the higher floors, gaze fixed on the north-east. Bilbo approaches with light feet and stops a step above and before him, making them roughly the same height.

“Tell me what you see,” he asks in a whisper.

“I see a solitary peek, a grand, grey mountain, its foot surrounded by pine trees. I see a large, marvelous gateway, guarded by my forefathers, leading to the main halls, always bursting with life. Imagine it, an entire kingdom, carved into the mountain.”

Bilbo has a hard time doing so and is not satisfied with the image his mind provides, but it will have to do. He brings his hands up, settles them in Thorin’s shoulders and the Prince turns to look at him.

“You will see it again,” he expresses with confidence as he caresses the man’s left cheek with his hand, the short beard coarse yet pleasant to the touch. Thorin smirks, weak.

“Do you truly believe that, or are you trying to comfort me?”

“I know it.”

Bilbo is neither stupid nor blind and he _knows_.

When Thorin leans forward, only a small gap between them, the blond meets him halfway. Thorin’s arms embrace his waist, hands resting on his back and the kiss is chaste and soft, and _wondrous_.

V

He wakes up slowly and opens his eyes to the soft light of the hearth; he can see slivers of light coming through the boards of the shutters. Bilbo, lying before him, still sleeps. There are new lines across his face, laughter lines and very soft frown lines, and his face and upper body sport a gentle tan, a remnant of the passing summer days.

They took things slowly from the start. They had both come to terms with their feelings for each other even before the first time they had kissed, almost three years ago, but they wanted this to work: in the case that it didn’t, they would’ve both been miserable, what with Bilbo’s adamant refusal to the possibility of leaving.

“I promised Gandalf and myself that I would help in any way I could, and I plan to keep my word,” had been his only explanation.

So far, it works, _they_ work. They love one another, but they know that won’t guarantee the success of their relationship, so they put an effort and communication is the key.

Bilbo stirs in his embrace and cracks an eye open.

“Is it morning already?”

“Looks like it.”

“Should’ve waked me up,” he recriminates stifling a yawn.

“Why? Have you got somewhere to go?”

The younger snorts and pinches his buttock, playful, before disentangling himself from the sheets.

*

Their life is peaceful, perhaps too peaceful. The seasons pass gently, the overly hot summer days are few and there’s only very little snow on winters. They have only dealt with bandits on two occasions and Tauriel has come with ill news only once. Bilbo’s travels to the Shire, or anywhere else, become rare and Gandalf visited them the last autumn as well as the year before.

“Do you want me to circle and attack them?”

“No,” they both grunt as they put on their respective leather armors, Smaug eyeing them from the window.

“You wait until they’re inside the courtyard,” Thorin continues. “We will stay by the front of the castle and you will cut their way back to the bridge.”

“Very well then, I will go hide in the forest.”

The dragon leaves, surprisingly quiet, and the men follow shortly after, heading towards the castle’s main entrance armed with all of their weapons. Bilbo has the good sense to burrow two of his daggers to him, having gifted him a bow and arrows some seasons ago. They stop a few steps into the courtyard, facing the bridge, and the shorter curses to whoever thought Dol Guldur was a good idea.

“ _That_ would be Saruman the White, a _friend_ of my grandfather’s. Maybe one day we’ll have the opportunity to _thank_ him.”

Bilbo hums and turns to face him with a smirk. “I would like that.”

They kiss, slow and passionate, Bilbo’s hands buried in his hair and his own hands holding the younger’s hips. They pull apart, reluctantly, and hide behind two columns, Bilbo on the north and Thorin on the south. They ready an arrow each and wait.

It’s not long before they hear approaching footsteps and when he dares a look around the column a moment later he can see the dark shapes of the orcs coming their way. He steps back and prays Mahal for their safety and wellbeing.

They wait some more, until the first orcs reach the courtyard and Bilbo gives the sign. They maneuver so they have a clear shot while most of their bodies are hidden behind the stone and release the arrows. They are already knocking two more arrows when the first ones reach their targets.

Smaug appears then and all hell breaks loose. Most of the foul creatures – fifteen or so – run towards them, panicked, while the rest – the bravest, craziest or most stupid, he doesn’t even care – choose to face the _dragon_. The men manage to shoot four arrows each before the first orcs reach them. They drop their bows and as Thorin reaches for his battle axe he can see Bilbo unsheathing his scimitars.

The first orc aims its makeshift spear to his head and Thorin dodges it easily and seizes the opportunity, slicing the abdomen of the creature with his axe. The second and the third he hits in the neck and he receives a slash in the forearm. After the third orc falls, the Ereborean chances a glance towards Bilbo: there are three orcs in the ground around him as he cuts the leg off a fourth and then slits the neck of a fifth with one of his daggers. The man is swift and makes no unnecessary moves, evading a crude sword and immediately throwing a knife in one fluent movement. Thorin turns and faces his next opponent, catching a flash of Smaug swinging his tail at a pair of orcs.

The skirmish extends for only two or three minutes, but the rush of it leaves them sweating and breathing heavily; Smaug huffs near the gateway. Thorin approaches Bilbo as soon as he finishes off the last orc.

“Are you alright?”

There’s dark blood splattered all over his front and blood trickle down the left side of side, the wound hidden amongst his curls.

“Yes. Got hit with the back of an axe and I’ve got a cut in my hand. You?”

“Some cuts in my arm and my leg. I’ll live.”

Bilbo gives him a cheeky smile and then considers Smaug.

“Are you alright?”

The dragon grunts. “I’ll need a bath.”

He snorts. “Can you hear any more orcs in 

the surroundings?”

Smaug faces the forest and focuses on it for a moment.

“No, nothing.”

They breathe, relieved for a moment.

“Well, we need to get rid of the bodies.”

Smaug turns and they all look at the result of the fight: there must be some 25 or 30 dead orcs, and they already stunk alive.

“I will get them out of here,” the dragon decides. “You both need to take care of your wounds.”

“Are you sure?”

Smaug looks at him and nods in that odd way he does.

“I will come back for Bilbo when I’m done, that way he can light them on fire.”

Smaug proceeds with his task as the men recover their weapons from the corpses. It takes some effort for Bilbo to pull his scimitar from the back of an orc’s head. When they walk back into the castle they leave the bloodied weapons in the foyer, keeping their swords strapped to their backs. In the kitchen, he heats water in the hearth whereas Bilbo grabs clean pieces of cloth, bandages and a pouch of dried athelas leaves.

“Let me see your arm first.”

They work fast, but attentively, cleaning the wounds with the athelas infusion and then wrapping them in the bandages. The sun is setting by the time Thorin’s done with his lover’s hand.

“I’ll heat more water for us to wash ourselves. Take off the leather and put on a coat, yes?”

Smaug and Bilbo leave for a moment before the dragon returns to the forest to keep an eye on the fire. Bilbo and Thorin wash themselves and then settle in a vigilance post to keep watch until Smaug’s return. They wear coats and keep blankets at hand; it’s mid-autumn and the nights are cool.

“Were they attempting to take hold of the fortress?”

“Maybe,” Bilbo answers, scrutinizing the dark forest. “Maybe they were headed somewhere else and they needed a place to make camp for the night.”

“Thranduil.”

They remain silent for a moment, but Bilbo shakes his head.

“Smaug said they were coming from the north; maybe they were running away from there. If anything happened there, Tauriel will pay us a visit.”

The dragon returns about two hours later, having washed in a nearby river, and the men retreat to bed, tired and sore.

*

The elven maiden appears the following day, after midday. They are still riling up from the encounter with the orcs, but Smaug is thoughtful enough to mention that a horse approaches: orcs don’t ride horses.

“How are you?”

She seems agitated.

“We’re alright, just some cuts and blows, nothing important,” Bilbo reassures her with a smile.

“What about you?”

“I am well. They took us by surprise, but weren’t too many. A group went north-west and another headed this way. I tried to reach you as fast as I could, but I crossed some stragglers in the way.”

He leads her to the kitchen and offers water to her; Bilbo takes the horse and informs Smaug about Tauriel’s arrival. They sit at the table there and eat stew moments later.

“The presence of orcs and spiders has increased since last year. The orcs come from North-East, from Gundabad, but the spiders seem to nest anywhere, which makes them hard to eradicate.”

She stays overnight and spends that day roaming the castle and accompanying them as they work on their vegetables.

“It’s very peaceful here,” she notes with a gentle smile as she gazes towards the northern forests. They cleared the rubble that once had been the northern wall almost two years ago and unveiled a magnificent view.

He sits back and stares at her. “If you ever feel up to it, you are welcome to stay here, for as long as you want.”

She _beams_ at him. “I’ll take you up to that.”

Tauriel doesn’t seem surprised about their sleeping arrangement and accepts the second bed gladly; if it upsets her to sleep in the same room as they do, she conceals it seamlessly, but she’s most likely accustomed to sleep in the company of males.

The rest of autumn and winter pass without major events… unless those few spiders count, but they happen to be easier to deal with than the orcs.

*

One early spring morning, well into Thorin’s sixth year of exile, they wake up, Smaug tells them a horse approaches and instead of receiving Tauriel as they expect, Thorin finds himself facing an old friend.

Dwalin dismounts after crossing the bridge and steps forward; they embrace fiercely, exchanging the usual Ereborean greetings. When they part, a shadow covers his cousin’s face.

“I wish I came with better news, but someone had to inform you and neither Frerin nor Dis could come.”

Thorin shakes his head.

“I understand, but you have travelled far, and news, ill or not, can wait.”

His cousin nods and Thorin takes a step back and turns towards his companion.

“Let me introduce you to Bilbo Baggins, the man Gandalf choose as my company. Bilbo, this is my cousin, Dwalin, I have spoken to you about him.”

The two men greet each other and Thorin can see them sizing each other up. Oh, yes – Thorin thinks – they will be friends in no time.

He leads the warrior towards the kitchen and Bilbo takes the horse to the gardens and speaks to Smaug.

“I’m sorry, Thorin,” Dwalin starts as he takes a seat.

He braces himself and nods.

“Tell me.”

“Your grandfather died.”

He closes his eyes and breathes deeply.

“He was old and weak. He asked your siblings to say goodbye to you in his place.”

“How did he die?”

“Old age, Oin said and he did everything in his power, believe me.”

He believes Dwalin, of course he does, Oin is a loyal man with strong principles, but he is _concerned_.

“Frerin rules, then.”

“He does. I left Erebor not a week after you grandfather’s death, but Frerin was already making radical changes: he refused Thror’s advisers and selected his own, with Balin’s help; he cut ties with Saruman and is making plans to amend Erebor’s diplomatic relations with Mirkwood and Dale.”

Bilbo enters the room then and Dwalin stops and stares at him, but the younger has already perceived the mood and focuses on the Prince.

“What’s wrong?”

Thorin takes his time to turn towards him and give his answer.

“My grandfather died.”

Bilbo takes it as he expects: his face falls, shocked and sad, and he crosses the space between them in a heartbeat, placing a hand on either side of his face. He can see Dwalin flinching at the corner of his eye, but pays him no mind.

“Oh, Thorin,” he strokes his face with adoration. “I am so sorry,” and he’s so honest, he can’t deal with it, not yet.

Bilbo takes it upon himself to serve the both of them as they continue their conversation, and Thorin knows better than to disagree with him. Dwalin politely ignores the blatant display of affection.

“The court will not be happy with Frerin’s mandates.”

“They will not,” his compatriot agrees. “Frerin has the support of our people, our soldiers and a handful of nobles, but all the court needs is a skilled mercenary and it won’t matter.”

“What precautions are you taking?”

“All of them: your family and the loyal nobles have been relocated and we keep an eye on their remaining servants; we have doubled watch and we’re thankful of Oin’s paranoia now.”

“What happened with Dale?”

Dwalin sighs.

“The former King died a few months prior and his son, Bard, rules now. A great man, very capable, but he is rather young and Thror was upset about it so he cut ties with Dale’s Crown. Our merchants still trade, but King Bard was offended, to put it mildly, and called your grandfather greedy and incompetent.”

Thorin grunts. “Not a wise move.”

His cousin merely shrugs. “Dale has learned to be independent and expect nothing from us, and they have amassed an impressive army in the last few years. They also incorporated Laketown to their official territory, which gives them advantage.”

“They can flee, if they need to; Ereboreans cannot. Do you believe King Bard will be receptive to renew ties with Erebor?”

“Perhaps, but he will ask for time to observe Frerin before opting for one way or another.”

“He wouldn’t be a very good King if he made rash decisions,” it’s the first Bilbo says, taking the seat next to him after setting a tray with tea, apples and strawberries in the table. Dwalin raises an eyebrow at him.

“No, he wouldn’t. Mister Baggins, may I ask where do you come from?”

“I come from the Shire, west of the Misty Mountains.”

The warrior hums. “I’ve heard of it, peaceful place. And the wizard chose you?”

Thorin notes the way Bilbo’s left hand clenches – hidden behind his other elbow –, but the fair man simply puts on his most disarming smile.

“That he did.”

Bilbo tends the garden alone that day and when Thorin opens his mouth to oppose, he simply lifts an eyebrow and turns to gather his gardening tools. He sits on a stone bench and observes him as he smokes; Dwalin joins him soon enough.

“I hate to be the one to start this conversation…”

“Then don’t.”

His cousin turns to look at him, his subtle way to encourage him.

“I know that if I were back at Erebor, if I was the Crown Prince, love would never be enough, not for us. I wouldn’t have even met him. But I’m not in Erebor and I’m not its Crown Prince; love is enough.”

“I won’t judge you, I would be a liar and a cynic, and I hate both. But, chances are, there will come a time Erebor will need you and you might have to choose then.”

VI

They live in relative peace for a year and half, almost exact, after Dwalin’s visit.

They grow their own food, make their own clothes, read all the books they can get their hands on and spend almost all their time together. Bilbo hunts, Thorin keeps the chimney clean, Smaug sometimes stays in his cave for an entire week, the lazy lizard. He only leaves when necessary now, having sold his smial to Hamfast –his neighbor – some seasons ago, and Gandalf and Tauriel come by every now and then. They had a bit of a problem with spiders last year, but no more orcs.

Thorin eventually tells him about his conversation with his cousin and Bilbo understands. As much as the Ereborean rejects the title, he is a Prince, even if the crown now rests on his brother’s head. But they don’t speak about it… except they might have to.

*

It’s a mid-autumn morning when Thorin barges into their room, shaken and out of breath, making Bilbo jump out of his skin.

“I can leave the castle,” he manages between breaths.

“What?” Bilbo _squeaks_.

“The spell is broken.”

It takes another moment for his brain to finally catch up and then he starts dressing in a hurry.

“Go wake Smaug.”

The Ereborean takes off once again. Bilbo starts rummaging in their chests, pulling out leather protections and a pair of snug coats. Most of their weapons are scattered around the room, but some are hidden in the kitchen and the common hall; they will have to pick them wisely.

“Smaug says he can reach the Mountain in four days, maybe he could push it to three,” Thorin tells him, entering the room without looking so distraught, “but we need to leave now, as light as possible, and he will need to rest at some point.”

Bilbo nods and grabs a pack and his coat with his left hand and his sword with the other.

“Change your clothes, extinguish the fire and take that pack and your weapons downstairs.”

He heads to the kitchen and fills the pack with apples, carrots, nuts, dried meat and three full water skins. Thorin comes down shortly after, carrying the pack and the weapons, and they go about collecting the disseminated knives and daggers. They find Smaug waiting for them in the garden. They accommodate as best they can, seated between the dragon’s wings, and then they’re off, Thorin frantically holding onto Bilbo as they ascend.

*

The wait stresses them, haunts them.

The first day they hardly speak, gazing at the quiet forest below. Smaug sets down once, near sunset, to drink water and then they fly throughout the night and the next day’s morning.

“Maybe you’re not needed in a bad way,” he tries to comfort Thorin as they lie on Smaug’s flank, under the shadow of the trees.

The dragon wakes them up late into the night and leaves to find something to eat. They eat and fill their water skins in the river, having already left Mirkwood and its poisonous water; as they wait, they put their armors on, strap their swords to their backs and their knives to their thighs. Whatever waits for them in Erebor, they will be ready for it.

They fly under a heavily clouded sky, taking turns to nap as the dragon glides across the sky, and reach Laketown as the pale sky lights up. The city – built in the lake, which amazes him to no end – seems empty, abandoned in a rush, so they push forward, towards the east. They can see columns of fire from a distance, but only when they reach the outskirts of Dale they can appreciate the magnitude of the battle. Smaug tenses beneath them as they gasp.

There are orcs, goblins and dark-cloaked men littered all over the area, their numbers hidden by the foliage, battling against elves and armored men, wearing the blue of Erebor and the green of Dale. There are archers situated on the balcony atop Erebor’s gates, but the trees pose an impediment for them. And Erebor itself would be an impressive sight, he believes, if it wasn’t sieged by a legion of foul creatures.

“Is there any place we can land without being shot at?”

“The slope on the other side, but –”

He cuts himself short at a jerk from Smaug. The dragon turns left and immediately twirls right as a pair of arrows pass next to them. But the arrows don’t come from the men or the elves.

Thorin moves behind him and holds him closely.

“Smaug! Do you see the gates?”

Bilbo turns and silently thanks Eru: a man waves an Ereborean flag at them.

“Yes. Hold on, both of you!”

The dragon maneuvers towards the gates, avoiding arrows and spears, and carefully perches on the side of the balcony, the people there scurrying away from them. Only one person seems unfazed by their dramatic arrival, easily cutting through the crowd as they climb off the creature’s back.

“Someone go fetch that bloody wizard! And someone notify Princess Dis!” He shouts to no one in particular and then faces Thorin, delivering a short bow. “Your Highness, pleasure to finally meet you in the flesh. I am Nori, son of Rissa, Captain of the Guard. Gandalf the Grey said you and your companions might show up.”

They exchange greetings with the gruff looking man, who proceeds to explain the situation.

“Orcs from Gundabad, goblins from the Misty Mountains and Men from the east; they reached us yesterday, at midday. The goblins attacked Mirkwood first and Thranduil sent word to Dale and us. All civilians from Laketown and Dale have been evacuated, to Mirkwood or here, or are defending Dale’s stronghold.”

“When were you sieged?”

The auburn haired man grunts. “Last night. Dale fell first, since the city is mostly unprotected. An elven contingent reached us a few hours ago and a group of our own joined it. They’re trying to blow those bastards up, I think.”

“Where is Frerin?”

“He’s in Dale with King Bard, last we knew. The rest of our army would join the fight, but there are some thousands of obstacles, as you can see, and it would –”

“Where is he?” A booming voice interrupts him then. “Where is Thorin?”

They turn and see a small group of people walking their way, led by a tall, curvy woman clad in leather armor from head to toes; she has black hair and blue eyes and it doesn’t take much for Bilbo to make the connection. Behind her – Dis – come Gandalf and three men: Dwalin, barking commands as he passes, and two others he doesn’t recognize, one old and the other young and carrying a bow.

Thorin steps forward and meets his sister in a crushing, painful looking embrace.

“Right,” the Captain besides him mutters as Gandalf approaches them, accompanied by the young stranger.

“Bilbo, Smaug, I cannot tell you how happy I am to see you.”

“Likewise,” the dragon replies and the place falls silent. Even Nori looks impressed now.

“Right,” Dwalin grunts, “the dragon. Think you can smoke those maggots?”

Everyone looks at Smaug, expectant, and he turns to look at the wizard, questioning.

“Well, I do believe we could use a fire drake. But I will need coal and an empty room.”

Whilst Gandalf lifts the spell he cast on Smaug _decades_ ago – and he _will_ get every detail about that, later –, they concoct a plan which is basically composed of Smaug, their archers and the conjoint armies of Erebor and Dale spilling out of the gates; a very simple plan.

“I will introduce you to everyone,” Thorin whispers to him as they are led to the gates by Dis. “You know, after this _debacle_ is over with.”

Bilbo sighs. “You never were the most optimistic man.”

After that comes waiting.

Someone takes their packs and then a fierce looking woman offers them a pair of shields; Thorin accepts it but Bilbo refuses his, since it will only slow him down. The woman gives him a concerned look but Thorin shakes his head and she leaves. A lot of people stare at them, but nobody approaches them, too concerned with the upcoming battle.

“Bilbo,” the Prince – and only now the title seems to have any weight – whispers next to him. He turns and Thorin’s face is close and so honest. “If anything happens, I want you to know that I love you.”

He gives him his best smile. “I know, Thorin.”

They kiss, ignoring the army around them. If either of them dies, or if they live only to lose each other to duty, they will have this.

*

There is a chilling roar above them and less than a minute later there’s the sound of a battle horn shortly before the gates open, slow at first only to give out to the adrenaline-fueled mass behind them. They take up speed once they reach the broad bridge and Bilbo can see the carbonized ground beneath their feet. He hears distant, inhuman shrieks: the first step of the plan seems to have worked and the enemy host has dispersed.

Their group – some 20 men and women – meet their first opponents as they reach the city of Dale, where Thorin hopes to find his brother. The first stone buildings are in sight when a group of goblins appears from the trees at their right.

“Bilbo, duck!”

Bilbo does and the fight begins. Thorin throws a borrowed axe, hitting a goblin in the neck, and Bilbo throws two knives before unsheathing his scimitars; Dwalin, besides him, strikes another creature across the face.

Bilbo dodges, blocks, advances and strikes, moving as fast as possible. These aren’t men and this is not a one on one fight, speed and agility are his best weapons right now.

He receives a blow on his left side and pain blinds him for a second; the blade might not reach his skin through the leather, but the strength of the blow could break one of his ribs. He spins around and slits the creature’s neck.

“We need to keep moving,” a woman exclaims as she spears her own adversary.

They advance, slowly at first as they wipe out the rest of the group, and they take cover in the second house they pass by, take a moment to breathe and plan their next move.

“We should follow the main street,” Dwalin proposes as he scans the surroundings. “It will lead us straight to the fortified center and it will be wide enough to ease the fight, or at least make it easier than a narrow street.”

Thorin nods, strands of hair coming loose from the bun at the back of his head.

“Keep an eye on the alleys and the buildings.”

They set off once again and find only a handful of stragglers – orcs and men this time – which they dispose of quickly enough. When they reach the fortified walls they stop abruptly and suck in a collective breath. There must be some two, three hundred orcs, goblins and men there, attempting to breach the gate, and bodies are strewn across the stone street. They can see a handful of men shooting arrows from a tower, but it’s not enough.

“It can’t be,” Thorin murmurs next to him and Bilbo sees it then, a tall, white orc, standing out among its comrades: Azog, the Pale Orc, Thrain’s – Thorin’s father – murderer. He sighs.

“If you die, you won’t get to enjoy revenge.”

He sheathes his swords and steps closer, slow and quiet, taking advantage of their enemies’ ignorance and the rest follow his lead. He’s already advanced a whole block, staying close to the buildings, when the first orcs notice them, alarming the others. Bilbo, Thorin and a few others throw as many knives as they can before proximity makes them draw their swords and axes.

Bilbo cuts down the first orc and then moves to the next. A man aims his sword to his head and Bilbo blocks the attack, the strength of the clash echoing through his body as an Ereborean takes the chance and stabs the stranger between two ribs.

The battle is a chaotic cacophony of men screaming, goblins screeching and weapons clashing, and at some point, Bilbo can’t tell when, the men of Dale and a group of elves join them as orcs and goblins join their own. The battle grows and grows, taking more space as they disperse. Bilbo tries to keep an eye on Thorin at all times, but after receiving a blow in the head that leaves him disoriented for a moment he finds himself surrounded by strangers. He wanders about for a moment, killing or injuring his enemies as he goes, and frantically searches for his lover, but to no avail. Instead, he finds himself with a familiar elf.

“Tauriel!”

The maiden sports a small cut on her right cheek, but seems otherwise whole as she elegantly dodges an axe aimed at her chest. He runs towards her and, together, they face a group of men.

“Are you alright?”

“I will be.” He then asks: “Have you seen Thorin?”

“Yes, a moment ago,” she replies, stabbing a man in the neck. “Follow me!”

They reach the main street with some difficulty and, as they turn left a block before the gates to the fortified area of the city, Bilbo spots Dwalin, a few men from Dale itself and a man that can only be Frerin taking down a cluster of orcs, and, right in the middle of it all, Thorin fighting the infamous Azog. Bilbo sprints forward, followed closely by Tauriel.

A few steps away from them, he pulls his last 

knife and throws it at the orcs arm, effectively distracting it as Thorin sidesteps and confronts another orc. Azog turns to him and Bilbo has barely enough time to crouch and dodge a blow to his head, bringing up his sword as he rolls forward; he cuts a fine line into the orc’s shin and it starts to bleed profusely. Thorin swings his own sword at the creature’s middle, but misses and then he has to step back in order to avoid being impaled. Bilbo sidesteps an orc that’s roughly his same size and then he has to crouch to avoid a dagger thrown his way; he turns again, right on time to see Azog’s blade sinking into Thorin’s side.

He screams – he can’t help it –, a sound born out of rage and despair and then rushes forward. Whether it’s aim or luck, he stabs Azog right through the eye. The foul being stumbles back and then drops, pulling its sword out of Thorin’s body while at it and Bilbo barely manages to catch him as he sways, a hand gripping his wound.

“You’re a menace,” the older exclaims, staring at the dead orc wide eyed.

“Shut up and walk with me, you need a healer.” He steers them towards the wall to their right, where there are hardly any people.

A man appears then, slaying an orc headed their way.

“Take him to the citadel, there are elven healers there!”

Bilbo does as he’s told and Dwalin and Frerin join them, keeping their enemies at bay. The battle continues around them and he believes he catches a glance of Smaug at some point, but he can’t be sure. They make haste, all the while silently praying to anyone that might be listening.

*

The wound is not as bad as he thought it would be, but Thorin lost a lot of blood along the way so he’s weak and needs to rest and sleep a lot to fight off any possible infection.

The battle is over by midday, but they don’t chance moving Thorin to Erebor until the following morning. The streets are clear and quiet, and Bilbo follows the small procession like a lost pup, covered in his still bloodied coat.

They stop at a room within the royal chambers and set Thorin in a large bed and Bilbo hurries to his side before anyone can stop him; someone moves towards him, but Dwalin says something in Khuzdul and everyone, minus the warrior, leave the room. Neither of them utters a single word for a long moment.

“I will send someone with water and new clothes,” he finally says and then retreats.

An hour later there’s a knock on the door and Bilbo turns to find it already open, a vaguely familiar young man looking at him.

“Hello, I’m Ori,” the Ereborean introduces himself as he enters the room. “Master Dwalin sent me.”

He places a large basin on a nearby table and drops a sack next to it.

“I brought clothes in many sizes because I remembered you were shorter than our average and you will find towels in there too. I will come back in an hour or so get these and your clothes.”

“You were with Gandalf yesterday, when we arrived. Are you a servant?”

“Oh, no. I’m Master Balin’s assistant.”

Bilbo frowns.

“Balin?”

“Master Dwalin’s brother, he was with us as well.”

Bilbo nods at that and Ori spares him a gentle smile before leaving.

He works meticulously, washing away the crust of dried blood, and then tries many shirts and pants before settling for some that aren’t too loose. There’s only one coat in the sack, but it hardly matters how big it is.

“You look like a child, wearing that thing.”

He turns and finds Thorin looking at him with a tired smile. Bilbo approaches and as he makes to sit, his lover shakes his head and pats the bed next to him.

“Did you sleep last night?”

“Yes.”

He lies down and draws closer to the warm body.

“I mean sleep, not nap.”

“Shut up. I’m not the one who got stabbed by the massive, obsessed orc.”

Thorin grunts, but is soon back to sleep.

They’re still like that, Thorin resting peacefully and Bilbo stubbornly staying awake besides him, when the door opens again and in comes Frerin. He hasn’t spoken to the King yet, he has hardly spoken to anyone here. The man takes a chair from the corner of the room and sits next to the bed.

“We can arrange a room for you, if you want.”

He props his head in his arm and looks at Frerin. They must be about the same age, he realizes.

“I’ve been by his side for the last eight years and we’ve shared the same bed for the last six. I’m quite alright where I am.”

He doesn’t want to antagonize Thorin’s siblings, but he needs to make his point: he will only leave this man’s side if either of them dies or if Thorin tells him to.

“I wanted to go, to be there for him, but I couldn’t, Grandfather would’ve suspected something.”

“I understand: you have your responsibilities, just as I have mine.”

VII

They leave the room two days later, after pestering Oin until the healer gives them his reluctant approval. They rope Gandalf into taking them to Smaug first, wanting to check the dragon personally.

“I’m quite well, really. I would be more worried about you.”

He’s staying in a ledge on the slope of the mountain; there’s a healing gash on his right wing, but he seems well fed and quite content, so they let him be.

Thorin’s family comes next and they find them back in the royal chambers. Frerin, Dis, Dwalin and Balin are accompanied by a blond man and two boys, one blond and the younger brunette, seated around the Princess; he recognizes them immediately: his brother-in-law, Indi, and his two nephews, Fili and Kili.

They spend a pleasant time, catching up and sometimes asking curious, yet polite, questions about Bilbo’s life in the Shire. They take tea together, and both of them stuff themselves with cookies and pastries, giving the boys a run for their money.

“We have some _issues_ to discuss,” Frerin begins as the boys retreat, ushered out of the room by their father.

Thorin represses a sigh and nods, keeping an eye on Bilbo. Dis snorts, surprising both of them, and takes lead.

“You’re _awful_ at this. Here’s the thing, Thorin: you’ve been in exile for eight years while Frerin has worked hard this last year, trying to give our people a better life; even if you _wanted_ the Crown, the people of Erebor might oppose to it.”

“Whether you want to stay in Dol Guldur or Erebor, it’s your own choice,” Balin continues. “But before you choose, we wanted you to know a few things.”

It’s Frerin’s turn now. “We’ve spoken to Gandalf and we reached a conclusion: Dol Guldur must be occupied. Because of its secluded location it would be easy for orcs to take hold of it and use it to replenish their army. Sending people there seems like the best option, not only securing the fortress, but also relieving Erebor’s imminent overpopulation.”

He glances at Bilbo, who’s decidedly looking at him.

“What would this entail for us?”

“You would be Master of Dol Guldur. And before you ask, no, you wouldn’t need to marry and have heirs,” Frerin carries on with a smirk aimed at Bilbo, “you would only need to name an heir.”

He shares a meaningful look with his lover. It really is hardly a matter.

*

Thorin and Bilbo marry in Erebor a month after the battle. It’s a small, private affair, unlike Frerin naming Thorin the Master of Dol Guldur.

Bilbo and Smaug leave two weeks after that, planning to meet Tauriel and a few other elves along the way, and Thorin follows a month after they return to deliver good news, leading the first caravan; it’s a group of thirty people, mostly builders and engineers, and it takes them six weeks to reach the forstress, joined by Smaug once they reach Mirkwood.

Bilbo and Tauriel greet them by the western end of the bridge and there’s a bit of a riot at the warm way Bilbo welcomes him in particular. The small group of elves stays with them for two more weeks, whether Thranduil likes it or not.

He gains his fellow Ereboreans’ respect by working side by side with them, reconstructing their new home; and although Bilbo’s not strong enough to help them with manual labor, the men and women warm up to him just as quickly as the fair man cares for their wellbeing and dutifully provides with food, both hunting and tending their crops.

Smaug takes more time, but eventually the people accept him as a constant presence in their everyday lives and treat him as an equal, a massive, fire-breathing equal.

*

He sits by the desk, reading some papers, when he hears the door opening and closing, and then light footsteps approaching. Thorin turns with a smile and freezes when his eyes fall on his husband’s smaller frame… his explicitly naked frame, covered only by one of Thorin’s dark blue coats. The blond walks forward, gently swaying, dancing to a melody inside his head, and the Master’s mouth goes dry.

“You’ve been working too hard,” he drawls, running his hands up and down the other’s shoulders.

“Bilbo, someone could come –”

“Nobody will,” and Bilbo smirks in that confident way of his.

Thorin abruptly stands up and takes Bilbo in his arms, carrying him towards their bed. Bilbo wraps his bare legs around his waist and laughs, the most beautiful sound Thorin has ever heard.

**Author's Note:**

> Ta-da! I'm not sure about, like, a third of this, and I'm pretty sure the person who submitted the prompt had had crack and fluff in their mind, but, well... I decided to post this before regretting it and not even trying.  
> Constructive criticism is appreciated, hate is ignored. Please let me know of all mistakes (section included)! Also, I totally made up the gardening part, because I'm an absolute idiot; if anyone here knows best, speak up, even if it's the longest comment ever I will read it, because I'm like that.  
> I sincerely hope you enjoy this, and I wish you all a lovely life! <3


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